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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227062">You Kept Me Alive</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkyLulu/pseuds/SparkyLulu'>SparkyLulu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>League of Legends</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Although it turns into self-indulgence pretty quickly ngl, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Feelings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, It takes immediately after Burning Tides, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:20:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,096</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkyLulu/pseuds/SparkyLulu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You underestimated my love for you."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A city that didn't care about the past of it's inhabitants, makes two partners in crime confront their own.</p><p>It takes place right after the events of Burning Tides, before Graves and T.F. head to Piltover.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malcolm Graves/Twisted Fate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You Kept Me Alive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Huge thanks to my best friend, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudersourwolf"><b>Des,</b></a> for helping me sort this out :)</p><p>I hadn't written anything for this fandom (or anything else for that matter) in a long time but I put a lot of thought and poured a lot of love into it :) It's pretty much self-indulgent comfort and fluff and I hope it can brighten up your day the way it brightened me up whenever I found the time to work on it! :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> 'We are alive.' </em>
</p><p>Those three words kept ringing inside of Graves' head and, every time, they made less sense.</p><p>To start with, there was never supposed to be a <em> we. </em> The outlaw had come to Bilgewater with the sole purpose of killing the man who was currently running away from the chaos of the port city (and the civil war which was sure to follow), looking for a hiding place <em> with </em> him.</p><p>Second, they <em> were. </em> They existed together and they occupied the same space, breathing the same air. It immediately related to the fact they were <em> alive. </em> Both had been captured and paraded as offerings for Gangplank's reign but they had found a way out -- not just once or twice, but Lady Luck had been generous that night and the soreness of their muscles, the sharpness of the breathed air, the poignant smell of their ruined clothes… everything acted as a reminder of the morrow they would face as <em> partners </em> once again.</p><p>But first, hiding.</p><p>"How far 'til we get there, T.F.?"</p><p>The swindler didn't falter his pace as he answered. "Just around th' corner, next to the Kegs' tavern."</p><p>It was close enough but Graves wondered if it would keep them alive till the following day when they'd be able to procure a boat and set sail to the mainland and on to Piltover. He could read the same apprehension on T.F.'s stiffened posture and clenched jaw. It was subtle (after all, the man was known for his poker face) but obvious enough to him. <em> 'Weird', </em> he thought, to still be able to understand such small signs. <em> 'Guess some things never go away'. </em></p><p>Finding a safe place in Bilgewater was enough of a problem on itself if one didn't count that half the city would probably find its location sooner or later. Every crook and cranny could be secure enough provided you were smarter than those willing to break in and had the means to defend it. Graves was willing to bet on their wits but he also knew they were in dire need of weaponry -- if they were to stand a chance during the perilous night, that is.</p><p>Dumb luck proved to be on his side yet once again, though, as a cutlass came down at his feet, the blade piercing the wood planks in front of him, and the dead weight of its presumed owner following shortly after. </p><p>He shared a look with the riverman. True, it was no shotgun and far from a worn-out deck, but it would serve its purpose should they need it. Hell, he was ready to sucker-punch the brains out of anyone stupid enough to try to rob or kill them, but he was also exhausted and knew that a weapon (no matter the kind) could go a long way in taking down enemies quickly.</p><p>Cutlass in hand and dead body left behind, it only took them five more minutes to reach their destination. Their surroundings were calm (much more tranquil than the bay area they had escaped from anyway) but they knew better than to trust Bilgewater and its inhabitants. Graves covered T.F.'s back as the cardsharp worked his way through the night's second lock (thankfully, this time, their lives didn't depend on it… yet, at least). The door was extremely well concealed behind weeds and vines, and the more appealing looks of the inn next to it made the mossy door quite discreet.</p><p>A rusty click signaled the success of their mission. A quick look around assured them of the safety of the hideout before they hastily went inside. </p><p>The two smallest rays of light Graves had ever witnessed came down from a pair of equally small holes in the ceiling. Darkness had never been a good company of his, especially since the days in the Locker, but T.F. didn't appear to have much trouble finding his way around. A moment later, the riverman's silhouette was illuminated by a small oil lamp, placed above a worn-down barrel. The outlaw wondered if the other man had found refuge there before.</p><p>Graves blinked a few times to adjust his vision to the dim light, taking the chance to inspect their surroundings. It looked like your ordinary forgotten warehouse. There wasn't much to it apart from some of those old moldy barrels and battered crates, but it was clean and dry enough to serve its purpose.</p><p>"I think we'll be safe spending the night here. Not exactly my best hiding spot but it should buy us enough time, Hotshot."</p><p>The gruff man nodded, finally letting his body drop. He was too tired, felt too old, and couldn't care a rat's ass less about keeping his guard up against the man he shared the hideout with. If T.F. wanted to slither away, he'd make sure to bid him farewell… or blow his guts out should they meet again.</p><p>In any case, that would be a problem for a later date. At the moment, exhaustion was kicking in, and, together with it, came the coldness of realization… in the form of still soggy clothes and lack of a heat source outside the lamp.</p><p>The riverman seemed to have followed a similar train of thought. He came back into his line of vision with a black metal <em> something </em>(the remains of a cauldron, maybe?). He attentively watched the swindler as he picked up some scraps of wood and used the lamp to light them, making a small fire inside the metal pot.</p><p>"'s not much but we've seen worse too."</p><p>Graves didn't say anything for he knew it to be damn true. Instead, he watched as T.F. fumbled with some more wood scraps. He remembered the gambler would always keep his long fingers occupied -- usually with his faithful playing cards -- whenever he’d been bored or busy planning. The outlaw thought this time it could be a bit of both. </p><p>He finally took a good glance at the other man. His gaze immediately went looking for the shot wound on T.F.'s shoulder, trying to determine its condition. It seemed fine enough, the wrap still in place, and no nearby threat of blood being spilled everywhere even after the trip to the safehouse.</p><p>From his corner, he appreciated how the warm glow of the makeshift fire laid a gentle caress over the swindler's skin. True, he had aged as many years as Graves had but time had been much kinder to the other than it could have ever been to him. Barely a couple of lines accentuated the shape of the gambler's mouth and jaw before being met by a well-groomed beard. The night had treated them poorly, but he could bet his remaining years that the riverman now frequented only the best barbers gold could afford. It suited him, just like the expensive (albeit now ruined) wardrobe that adorned his smaller frame, from the heel of his sea monster-hyde boots <em> ('there's no way in hell he paid for those') </em> to the golden brim of his equally dandy hat. Even his hair, now free of the dreadlocks the man had fancied when they were both young, had been well cared for. For a moment, Graves wondered whether, if circumstances were different, it would still feel as soft or smell as spicy as those perfumes T.F. liked to shower in back in the day.</p><p>Heat rose to his face and he had to look away, suddenly aware of his thoughts and the way he had been gawking at the other man. Time could pass but some things would never change. He stopped his thoughts before they would set sail into deeper waters and drown him in a sea of memories. The past belonged back there and things were frail enough as they were anyway.</p><p>The swindler finally sat down near him. He was far enough to respect Graves' personal space but close enough to show a sign of trust. Neither said anything else and the gunman wondered if the other had fallen asleep. He would never know for, soon enough, his body gave in to exhaustion and sleep claimed him.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>As soon as he heard the first snore, Twisted Fate finally let his guard down. The whole ordeal he had survived with his old-now-once-again partner had taken a huge toll on him but old habits were hard to drop. Trust had always been an issue to him and, even though Graves had been the only person he could count on to watch his back, he didn't know what to expect now after their set-up rendezvous and the ruckus that had come afterward. He didn't blame the gunman for wanting to kill him or for the recklessness that had almost cost them both their lives. Malcolm's words, on the other hand, had hurt him more than he would openly admit.</p><p>The riverman was a liar, a swindler. There was no point in sugar-coating it, he was proud of it (in the twisted sense that could only come with perfecting a craft). He had become a master of half-truths and a gambler of high stakes, but nothing could have prepared him for the impossibility of finding himself face-to-face with the man that had given him the best and worst years of his otherwise lonesome life -- much less to dare consider the chance that, in the tightest of spots, the only thought lurking inside Graves’ thick skull would be to bluntly tell him the <em>truth (as if there really would be another way with the gunman). </em></p><p>Twisted Fate was a coward, much like the man he had said goodbye to years ago in the Serpentine. </p><p>There had been no more cards to draw, no more aces up his sleeve. The only way to win was to play with the hand he had been dealt -- a foolish thing. So, when all the odds had been stacked against him and the stakes couldn’t be higher, that was exactly what he had done.</p><p>And he had <em>succeeded. </em></p><p>There had been a price, of course -- a bullet through his shoulder, gold wasted in now ruined clothes and the unthinkable, foolish recklessness… But he had saved Malcolm and, by doing so, he had gained more than he could have ever thought. His life. His best friend. His <em> partner. </em> </p><p>Was it worth it? Maybe.</p><p>Was it <em> enough? </em></p><p>He would need some <em> fine </em> liquor to answer that one and there was a high chance he would still struggle to admit it, even to himself.</p><p>He wouldn’t deal with the past, for it was long gone. Nothing could be changed, no sweetness to be stolen from the dead.</p><p>But, of course, he had decided to make the same mistake twice and build a house of cards in the midst of a wild storm.</p><p>As he had fumbled around with the wooden scraps, he had noticed Graves' lingering gaze all over him. At first, he'd thought the outlaw was merely checking on him or trying to determine whether he could be trusted. However, as seconds turned into minutes, he had to wonder -- could that mean...?</p><p>
  <em> Impossible. </em>
</p><p>He knew the gruff man as well as the back of his hands. He knew the outlaw was an impulsive, hot-headed mess that would never back down from a challenge or turn away instead of facing whatever hell willing to break loose. That included more delicate subjects as well, such as putting their lives on the line or even… <em> feelings. </em></p><p>True, Malcolm Graves had never been one with words (more of a man of action, he daresay), but that had never stopped him from asking what needed to be asked or saying what had to be said.</p><p>Perhaps, that was the reason his words had hurt the riverman more than the bullet had.</p><p>Yet, T.F. could recall a time when the sound of the other man’s voice could make him smile like no other treasure.</p><p>Maybe, just <em> maybe… </em> if he could find the words to show Malcolm; if he could stack the odds in his favor…</p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p>Separated, time had been cruel to both of them. Enough damage had been done on both accounts and it would take more time to build again what was lost. He would do what he had done in the past -- what he <em> had to do </em> -- and swallow back words and hopes, for his fate had always been set: his role was to wait patiently in the shadows for the moment to strike; it was another man’s role to <em> break in </em> and ignite the fuse.</p><p>It was a bitter thought, but he had nothing but memories of a past long gone to bring him comfort before he finally fell asleep.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The Locker had played its part in changing much of the man Graves used to be. One of those things was taking away the sweet comfort of deep sleep and replacing it with a much lighter slumber; so, it was no surprise when something moving beside him woke him up.</p><p>Perhaps, sometime later, he would wonder why he hadn't just punched first. Perhaps he would ask himself if his age had deterred his instincts, or if he had become so bloodthirsty that he would welcome any occasion to take it on whoever stupid enough to try him; or maybe he had known he was safe all along, no hair standing or skin-crawling to alert him of impending danger.</p><p>That didn't mean he had to be <em> happy </em>about being awakened in the first place.</p><p>With a grunt, he opened his eyes and blinked a few times to adjust them to the dim light. The fire was almost out but he could see the hideout was as undisturbed as it had been before they had broken in.</p><p>The thing moved again, nudging his right side, and it was at that moment that he realized that T.F. had moved closer to him (or had it been him?), practically clinging to his arm. Graves’ brows furrowed, not nearly as much out of annoyance but more for the lack of another, <em> better </em> response.</p><p>An afflicted sound brought him back to reality. He focused on his partner again, finally noticing how distressed the swindler was in his sleep. Short frantic movements signaled the troubles of his mind and Graves could not remember if he had ever witnessed his partner in such a state. Perhaps, he’d seen him fumbling with his cards in an almost obsessive state under stressful situations but never in sleep. As far as the gunman knew, dreams had always been kind to the other man.</p><p>
  <em> ‘Maybe the Locker took that away too.’ </em>
</p><p>He would’ve laughed at the naivety of that thought if the riverman hadn’t called him back in his feverish dreams.</p><p>“T.F.?” he tried.</p><p>“...-n’t leave me…”</p><p>It had been barely above a whisper and Graves wasn’t sure he had actually caught any of the words but he was certain of the sorrow in his partner’s broken voice. His hand moved on its own, taking the precious hat off his owner's head, revealing matted strands of dark hair. The outlaw's eyes scouted the revealed facade. Worry had deepened the lines across the gambler's face, his brows furrowed in distress and eyes tightly shut, almost as if he was trying to hard not to see. But what unsettled Graves the most was the single teardrop rolling down his partner's visible cheek. Like the rarest pearl in the ocean, it glistened with uniqueness but carried the weight of its cost. A treasure, indeed, but one he now wished he'd never had found.</p><p>“...-ease don’t leave me… Malcolm…”</p><p>Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around the smaller man. Questions raced through his mind beating as fast as his heart, but he need not ask them. Words wouldn't do, only actions could <em> break-in. </em></p><p>At that moment, he <em> understood. </em> The Locker had taken more than just ten years of their lives but he wouldn't let it take anything else. When T.F. woke up, he would make sure to be there for him.</p><p>"I'm here… <em> Tobias." </em></p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It was an unfair game and he had a losing hand. He could try to bluff his way out of it but all the odds were stacked against him. If only Malcolm would listen to him, trust him… but how could he ask that much when he had offered so little? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It didn't matter; not anymore. His guts would paint the docks a bloody red and there was nothing he would do to escape that fate. There had been a moment, a split second, when he had considered jumping into the dark waters but he had discarded the idea almost as soon as it had formed. He would rather be shot facing his destiny than drown escaping like a coward.</em>
</p><p><em>He couldn’t help but smile at the irony of it all. </em><em>Yes, facing </em> Destiny <em> was the least he could offer Malcolm so he would do it.</em></p><p>
  <em> However, fate was a twisted fella' and he always managed to mess up with him in one way or the other. As soon as he had made his choice, the invisible strings were pulled and his partner (not him!) was the one jumping into the depths. Time slowed down as he was bore witness to the other man's fall. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He screamed his partner's name but no sound came out.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His body dropped down, as his hand reached for a grasp it would never find. </em>
</p><p>'Don't leave me!'<em> He wanted to say but his voice was gone. </em></p><p>'Why?'<em> he wanted to ask but he was out of breath. </em></p><p>'Please, don't leave me, <b>Malcolm…!'</b> <em>were the last words that escaped him, nothing but dancing bubbles as he sank behind the only man he had ever loved.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Darkness. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Cold and silent. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Warmth. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Something warm enveloped him. Could that be the end? At least, it felt rather peaceful... </em>
</p><p>
  <em> … But bitter. </em>
</p><p><em> He hadn't been able to save Malcolm. Not even in death, not even in that last moment before the end. He wanted to scream. He wanted to know </em> why… <em> but he knew</em>. <em> It was the same reason he had jumped head-straight into his deepest fears. He knew that now or, perhaps, he had always known, but had been too busy waiting. </em></p><p>
  <em> It didn't matter. The wait was over. He was alone once more. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "... Tobias." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Great. His name was all the company he would have. Better get used to it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Tobias…" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> If it was spoken in that gruff voice, he thought he actually might do just that. </em>
</p><p><em> " </em>Tobias…"</p><p>
  <em> That twinge of annoyance just wouldn't do. If he had to listen to his given name on repeat, he would rather listen to the gruff, husky voic-- </em>
</p><p>"If ye dare pull a trick on me I'll find ye in hell an' kick yer wiseass."</p><p>Against all odds, hearing his partner's voice could still make him smile.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>It worked. </p><p>He wouldn't admit it out loud, of course, but he felt a wash of relief as soon as T.F. woke up. He had no clue what had been going on inside that dream of his but it must've been nasty to put the riverman in such a distressed state. Having gone through countless nightmares himself during his time in the Locker, it hadn’t been easy to merely stand (or sit) by his partner while it lasted. At the very least, he was glad to be there for him.</p><p>
  <em> 'An' he called fer me.' </em>
</p><p>That thought alone made his heart swell with warmth, <em> almost </em> making all those lost years <em> worth it. </em></p><p>"Mal…" T.F. cleared his throat, even if it didn't make much of a difference. "Malcolm?"</p><p>Brown eyes searched for him and he gazed back, his greyish blue pupils following the dried trail that the shed tear had left marking its path. There was no denying T.F.’s eyes were still heavy with the lack of a proper rest but Graves could see something else glimmering under the glow of the last lit embers. He’d seen that gleam before, a long time ago, when the future shone brightly and nothing could threaten their bond.</p><p>“Tobias?”</p><p>“Don’t call me <em> that…” </em> </p><p>He wouldn’t say, but the way T.F. attempted to hide from him, burying his face in the outlaw’s poncho was <em> cute. </em></p><p>They stayed as they were, the gruff man silently holding the other. Graves knew better than to scare the swindler away by letting his tongue rush so he patiently waited. Besides, he was enjoying the company.</p><p>The swindler was the first to speak. "We were at the docks again but 'twas just the two of us." His tone was calm but Graves knew that, much like his poker face, it was another mask. "You wanted me dead and I wanted to explain but neither would budge."</p><p>The outlaw wasn't sure if T.F. was talking about their real encounter or the dream. He thought that it could be possible one masked the other but, combined, they would help put together the truth.</p><p>The swindler continued. "I was ready to face destiny, y'know? I'd never stopped to think about it but it makes sense, to <em> face destiny, </em> I mean."</p><p>That made Graves' stomach churn. Even though he had never been as eloquent as his partner, he had taken care in naming his shotgun (he tried not to think about the fact that it was now lost to the sea) and had chosen that name for two reasons -- one, already vocalized by the other man. Yet, the thought of pointing it down at T.F. now made him uneasy -- even in the context of a dream.</p><p>"But then…" the gambler went silent.</p><p>Graves waited for him to continue until it was clear that he wouldn't say more.</p><p>“Ye called for me”, he wondered.</p><p>“You were dying", was the other man's dry reply. A whisper, that echoed loud as thunder in Graves' mind and made him hold the other a little tighter.</p><p>He wasn't shocked by the revelation -- he was, after all, a dead man walking. No, what struck a chord within him was the emotion behind those words. It was the sound of defeat, a sound he had already heard earlier that night, and that he had hoped he'd never hear again coming from that same man. The outlaw felt compelled to say something -- <em> anything </em> -- to break that dreadful spell. "'Twas just a dream, T.F. I'mere an' I'm not goin' anywhere."</p><p>"That's sweet, Malcolm, but you're missing the point."</p><p><em> 'Wiseass.' </em>It was almost unreal to see the riverman in such a vulnerable position, so Graves bit down his remark. At least the mood had shifted slightly for the better.</p><p>T.F. sighed. "What I <em> mean </em> is that I failed to save you… <em> again." </em></p><p>The gruff man was left speechless for a moment. Those were some <em>bold </em> words the swindler had spilled there, and Graves could see the truth hidden beneath them. He knew his partner -- there was no way a nightmare would affect the man as much. It was a half-truth, meant to mask the swindler's apology… and <em> care. </em></p><p>The outlaw smiled. Sometimes, it would be like that.</p><p>"For a wiseass like ye, yer skull can be pretty thick."</p><p>T.F.'s brown eyes finally looked back at him, squinting and demanding an immediate explanation.</p><p>"Ye failed 'cause ye weren't meant to <em>get in, </em> that' was ne'er your job", Graves provided; but T.F. was still being too slow. "Ye gave me a reason to <em> get out, </em>so we could get things right. Of course, I got us back in -- well, neck-deep in -- but…" He grew silent, unsure of how to continue.</p><p>"Go on… <em> please." </em></p><p>The outlaw took a deep breath. The tension could be cut in half with the cutlass but he <em> had to </em>make it right.</p><p>"Ye kept me alive. Always had my back. Even in <em> there -- </em> the Locker, I mean. I didn't know but ye did. An' even when I thought ye'd betrayed me… even then ye tried to take care of me."</p><p>Half of it had been quickly spilled and half had probably come out as a grunt; but it had felt <em>right </em> -- to finally say it. His cheeks burned and his stomach was making funny things as he waited.</p><p>Long fingers searched him for his rough hand, curling over it in the softest caress -- like the sun kissing cold skin after a rainy day. It lingered there, and the gruff man knew that it didn't matter what fate or destiny awaited for them, they would face it… <em> as partners. </em></p>
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